


Night School

by strangeera



Category: Emmerdale
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Coming Out, Drug Use, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-11 01:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7018327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeera/pseuds/strangeera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...buying drugs from Aaron last night in the car park outside KFC, waking up this morning still tasting last night's coke when I tried to swallow and thinking about how his fingers briefly touched mine when he handed it over. high school au.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cool

**Author's Note:**

> This is sixth form, should have clarified that in this chapter, but it will be reflected in future chapters. No underage, characters are 17 to 18. Just wanted to clear that up.

I'm sitting at my desk in Mr. Edwards geography class, seriously bored, absently checking my phone, flicking through uninteresting snapchat stories as I tap my blue biro against the folder that says Natural Erosion on it and thinking about him last night in the car park outside KFC, and The Dream. Kimberly and Rebecca pouting, wearing the dog face – buying drugs from Aaron last night in the car park outside KFC, waking up this morning still tasting last night's coke when I tried to swallow and thinking about how his fingers briefly touched mine when he handed it over. “That's fifty quid,” he'd said, holding out his scarred hand, and he was wearing a black beanie hat with a Nike logo on it, and I was thinking about how cute he looked in the Nike beanie hat and I was wishing more than anything that he would, I dunno, just touch me again, just for a second, please, and then I said, “fifty fucking quid? You having a laugh mate? I never pay more than thirty quid for a gram,” which wasn't true, but you know, something about playing up like this, to him, really gave me a thrill, something I haven't felt before. He narrowed his eyes at me, frowned, and the way his face went just made me want to step out in front of a car, my heart was racing so bad, but then he laughed, and he said, “thirty quid? You've been sniffing Daz, mate,” and behind him, sitting in the driver's seat of her car, Cheyenne looked up from her brand new 64gb rose gold iPhone 6S plus and said, rolling her eyes, “been smoking the dank oregano, Robert?”

 

From the car, some Ariana Grande song was playing. My face was burning, and Cheyenne was pretending to smoke a white chocolate Mikado and staring at me, lips curled. I was feeling so annoyed, but mostly with myself, because I'd lied, I wanted him him to react like this, but I should have known – he never goes anywhere without Cheyenne, fucking bitch. I was hoping more than anything that my embarrassment wasn't showing, because I have a major blushing problem, seriously, and because, you know, I wanted to appear cool – but aloof and uninterested. I was failing, though. She could see right through me, I knew it. 

 

“Shut the fuck up Cheyenne, everybody knows you fucked Abbie's dad,” I retaliated, reaching for my camo Huf wallet and grabbing another twenty. Aaron was smirking, biting his bottom lip and I felt like I was floating through outer space, he just looked so, you know, and Cheyenne was glaring at me, basically snarling, before sticking her fingers up at me, and her nails were pointed, and like kind of a pink colour, or nude or whatever, as Natalie liked to constantly remind me. 

 

“You kind of did though,” Aaron was saying, staring over at her and grimacing, like he does, and I was feeling just so heavy, like I'd been punched in the chest, I wanted him to touch me again so badly, and Cheyenne said, “fuck off gay boy,” and put the window up. 

 

“Fine, fifty?” I said, holding out two twenties and a ten and he nodded, and grabbed the money, and his fingers brushed mine again, and I felt like I couldn't breathe, and I couldn't say anything, didn't know what to say if I could and he was just standing there, widening his eyes at me, doing that half smile thing that people do when they don't really know what to say to somebody they barely know, and then he said, “alright?” and put his hands in the pockets of his blue black body warmer. “Cool,” I wheezed. 

 

In the classroom, still staring at my phone, and Kim S has posted a snapchat story with nothing but a black screen with the rolling my eyes emoji on it, and I'm thinking, you know, same, and then I'm thinking again about The Dream. 

 

He was laying down with his arms behind his head on top of my bed, wearing nothing but the black beanie hat with the Nike logo on it, a pair of black boxers and two black socks, and I know it sounds kind of weird but I was pretty much mesmerised by the dark hair under his arms, and I was getting pretty turned on, and more than anything I just wanted to kiss him there, feel it against my face, all over me, breathe in everything he is, was, will be, and I was stalking toward him there, on the bed, and I wasn't wearing any clothes, either, and I was pushing all this stuff off my bed – a PS4 controller, a lighter, one black glove, a pair of scissors, and then I put my hand on his leg, and my hand felt hot and wet, and he was just staring at me laying there, on my bed, and smiling, inviting me to go further, just do it, and I was shaking so badly that the bed was shaking too, and then the whole room, and I just couldn't do it, I wanted to, so badly, but I couldn't, and then he said

 

And when I opened my eyes this morning the alarm on my phone was going off, and I was feeling pretty fucking pissed off, like I'd been cheated, I dunno, just a few more seconds, please, just let me try again. I tried to snooze a couple of times but Natalie was texting me like a million times, getting increasingly agitated that I wasn't replying, though it was only twenty past seven, and eventually I gave up trying to get back to sleep, trying to recapture the way I felt with my hand on his leg, fucking hell. My dick was hard, and the bed was wet with sweat and then I picked up the phone and said: mornin babe just woke up, i'll pick u up in 45 love u xx and two vibrating heart emoji's and when she text me back it said: Aww ya too swweet, luv ya to xx could you grab me a sausage mcmuffin on the way baby plzzzzz xx with the princess emoji and the high five that looks like two hands praying and though I really couldn't be arsed, had too much to think about, I said: okay xx and she said: thank uuuuuuuuuuuuuu <3 <3 <3 xx and I just lay in my bed for the next twenty minutes, though I really needed a shower because all I could smell was, you know, sex. I picked up my phone again and flicked through his instagram profile until I found a good picture of him – staring at the camera, a little bit of chest hair visible, fuck, and stared at his lips. I grabbed my dick and wanked myself off until I came all over my stomach, then lay there, breathing heavily, smelling like come, feeling sort of guilty but great about it for another twelve minutes, the Nike logo hovering over everything.

 

Back in the classroom, and I'm so fucking hard under my desk, still being watched by those eyes from my bed, so I swallow all of the spit in my mouth and rub my legs together, and try not to scream. I open up the contacts app in my phone, rubbing my hard on between my legs, staring at his name in my phone and melting. Aaron, and then the smiling purple devil emoji, because drugs, and now, well, other stuff. Mr. Edwards is walking around the class, stamping our homework diaries, something about erosion, fuck knows, I'm way too preoccupied, and when I glance up at the clock on the wall it's quarter past twelve, five minutes to lunch time, and I'm buzzing, but horny, and I kind of need a cigarette, and for somebody to set me on fire, cheers.


	2. Sex

“And this is how it starts...”

 

Cheyenne is sitting beside me in the sixth form common room, and it's twenty five to one, and she's slowly eating a bag of Frazzles, one white headphone sitting in her right ear, one in my left. I've already finished my dinner – a bag of Dorito's, a diet Fanta orange and two cigarettes. There's not that many people in the common room, and Cheyenne's not being particularly talkative today, which to be honest makes a nice change of pace, bless her; I think she's still pretty pissed off about me basically admitting that she fucked Abbie's dad to Robert Sugden the other night. I dunno, something about the way he was blushing when she took the piss out of him, fake smoking the white chocolate Mikado, was strangely endearing, cute even, but I don't really want to think about that. I don't make a habit of chasing around after straight guys, after all. No way. Leaves you feeling like shit, and I'm pretty sure there's a fear of being rejected to people who chase after people they know they can't have, but anyway. From the headphone in my ear, Sex by The 1975. He blushes all the time though, I've noticed. Casually, even about stupid stuff like getting a question right in the class, in front of everybody. 

 

Speaking of, he's sitting across the room from us; a yellow and pink JD Sports string bag draped across his chair behind him, surrounded by Karl Jenner and Brandon Vala – he never goes anywhere without them, and they're all looking at their phones, probably watching wrestling or some straight shit like that, I dunno, pretty fucking boring anyway, and Robert is eating this weird looking salad, and I dunno, he looks sad. I wonder what he's sad about, I'm asking myself and then I'm thinking, selfishly, I know, what could he possibly have to be sad about, though I know I shouldn't – rich parents, still married, stunning girlfriend, and he drives a really nice car. What hardship has he possibly faced? Beside me, Cheyenne looks up from her phone, narrows her eyes at me, and says, “what are you doing?”

 

“What? Nothin', obviously,” I stammer, totally busted, playing with the ring-pull on my empty diet Fanta can and refusing to look up at her, because I know she'll know what I was doing, even though I'm not really sure what I was doing in the first place, anyway. I sneak a glance at her, and you know, she looks so fucking mischievous, the cliché evil fairy in the fairytale – her perfectly thick, arched eyebrows; those lips, drenched in Kylie Jenner's new lip-gloss; trademark shaved bleach blonde head. She looks famous; simultaneously appearing elegant, yet trashy – an ancient, beautiful statue, carved from the finest marble or whatever, with the words Fuck Off etched onto its forehead in bubble writing and a smiley face, doused with oozing neon pink paint. 

 

“I still can't believe you stood up for him the other day,” she says, holding up her rose gold iPhone to take a selfie and pouting, and seemingly, I'm safe. “Fucking little prick,” she says, tilting the phone to let me take a look at another modern art masterpiece – and she's wearing the dog face, of course, “yeah or nah?” The apple watch on her wrist is rose gold too, but she doesn't even need to work out. From the headphone in my ear, “he's got a funny face but I like that because he still looks cool,” and I'm feeling, I dunno, heavy and weird, and I say, as I always do, dunno why she even asks at this point, “yah.”

 

“I mean,” she continues, adding the picture to her snapchat story and sending it to her entire friends list with the caption “bored”, of course, with one perfectly manicured finger, “fucking look at him,” raising her eyebrows in Robert, Karl and Brandon's direction, “probably eating a fucking raw seafood salad,” rolling her eyes, “from fucking Booths, posh twat.” Cheyenne calling anybody posh is like the definition of irony, I mean, yeah, he is pretty posh, and his parents are still married, and maybe he is a twat, I dunno, but still. “You're posh,” I remind her with a smile. “Hun, I'm not posh,” she says, rolling her eyes again, but then she smiles, those perfect, straight, white teeth that make me feel, I dunno, strangely self-conscious, and says, “I'm just a slut with money.” From the headphone, “I'm about to fill his shoes.”

 

“Nah, but really, look at him,” she says, and when I look over at him again, he still looks sad, still staring at his phone, and I feel, I dunno, weird, “all that money and he probably got his entire outfit from BHS. And he has the nerve to even fucking speak to me? Fucking basic. Such a waste.” He's wearing a pin striped shirt that's like sort of a faded grey colour, black chino's, these weird, cheap looking black shoes and white socks. I think he looks fine, maybe a little bit boring but fine, but regardless, I say, “heart eyes,” with a fake yawn, mostly just to appease Her Highness. The thing is, everything about Robert Sugden seems typical. In fact, he seems like the kind of lad that might corner somebody like me in the alley behind the chip shop and give somebody like me a lamping if somebody like me wasn't supplying him and his entire football team with drugs, I mean. 

 

“Do you want to come over later? We can smoke dabs and watch the new Bloodline,” she says, rummaging around inside her massive fuck-off bag, and I'm still casually, or I hope, sort of looking over at Robert, Karl and Brandon, and I'm thinking why does she like that show so much, it's fucking boring, and then I'm thinking why does he look so sad, why does he blush so much, and I say, “ugh, why do you like that show so much? It's fucking boring,” and then I say, “and besides, your mom fuckin' hates me, thinks I'm corrupting you or whatever. If only she knew,” a sly smile. Cheyenne says, “come oooooooooooon, Aaron, she's addicted to cough syrup again, anyway, she won't even notice.”

 

Robert's still looking at his phone, and on the other side of the room, Daniel M is playing something, loudly, on a Nintendo 3DS with an Animal Crossing faceplate on it. “I'll think about it. Hurry up, anyway. I really need a wee. And I've gotta get this to Finn,” I say, patting my jacket pocket, MDMA and cheap weed, and looking annoyed, and it's then that Robert looks up at me, doing that half smile thing that people do, you know, and I return the gesture, but feel stupid about it. He stares at me like that for about five seconds, and I dunno, something inside my stomach feels, I dunno, weird, empty, maybe I'm still hungry, and when he looks away, bizarrely, I feel like I'm missing something, and he's blushing.

 

From the headphone, “she's got a boyfriend anyway.”


	3. Egg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very offensive language in this one. Also I thought, because music is such a major part of this series, I'd start up a Night School playlist on Spotify, with songs added every time they're used in a chapter. If that's something you're interested in, you can check that out here - https://open.spotify.com/user/stealth_boy/playlist/0LgENqphpBRGsIVhJvotw8

People always assume that because I'm a bad bitch and I like using the middle finger emoji a lot that I'm self-conscious. They say that because I'm awful to basically everyone I probably hate myself, and you know what, it's so not true. Hashtag not sorry 'bout it. I don't hate myself – I look great, always tanned, I always smell good, I have a shit ton of followers on instagram and I have the best car, so, you know, get your life. So what if my mom is addicted to cough syrup and my dad is fuck knows where, Jupiter for all I care. I don't hate myself, I hate everybody else. Hair flip emoji.

 

Anyways, we're sitting in my car at the complex, and we've got the new Ariana Grande CD on that Aaron pretends to hate, but secretly loves, and he's sitting beside me in my car, and he's AFK again, and I'm feeling hungry but bored, and I want a burrito from KFC. “I'm getting a burrito from KFC,” I say, absently scratching my left eyebrow, hoping I didn't fuck it up, then check it in the mirror on the sun visor with the cute little anime sticker on it. “Do you want anything?” I ask, looking over at him, but he's staring out of the window, fiddling with the zip on his ugly body-warmer and looking faded as fuck.

 

We haven't been friends for that long. Just a few years, and I'm thinking about when we were sitting on my bed when I was fifteen and he was fourteen, and we were smoking this really weak weed and listening to Ephemeral Artery by Neon Indian on repeat because Aaron was trying but failing to be hipster, and we were watching racist prank calls on YouTube, and we were laughing so hard, and I was absolutely in love with him, I thought he was so good looking, so funny - his head was shaved and he had an eyebrow piercing that was major yuck, but luckily it got infected and he had to take it out, and he was telling me about how much of a crush he had on Ashley B and it was then that I realised that, you know, he was never gonna look at me the way he used to look at Ashley when Ashley would ask to borrow a fucking rubber, or what two colours to mix together to make green, thick twat.

 

Lately though, he hasn't been the same. I can see it in his eyes when he smiles at one of the mean things I say, when other people mistakenly think I'm joking, I'm really not. He's elsewhere, AFK AF, and sometimes I feel a little bit like I'm just his driver, carrying him from deal to deal, crush to crush. He thinks I don't notice, but I do. The breathless way he looks when Robert fucking Sugden looks over at him, the way Robert blushes when he looks away and I might act indifferent and bored, but you know, I'm not. I'm a messy bitch and I live for drama, and Robert Sugden has it coming. 

 

“Aaron, seriously, do you fucking want anything? Swear down, I feel like I'm talking to a sandal,” I say, glancing at my rose gold apple watch when it vibrates. 18:17, 19 new snapchats, and a flower from Zeb, rolling my eyes emoji. “Sorry, Chey,” he says, looking up at me, “I dunno what's up with me, feel like I'm underwater. I'm not even hungry, and you know how hungry... I get.” I've seen this all before, saw it with Ashley, with Ricky C, with Carter, and I don't want Robert S added to the list. I mean, Aaron could probably get Robert to fuck him, sure, I always thought his skin was way too soft and his trousers were just a little bit too short, you know, but then what? He's gonna marry a girl. I'm getting agitated, “well maybe you shouldn't have mixed that MDMA with that fucking diet Dr. Pepper,” I say, eyebrows raised, eyes wide, “seriously. You're starting to look like Casper when he turns into the egg.”

 

Fucking Robert, though. Light in the loafers little shit. I mean seriously, his parents are still fucking married, how embarrassing, and his eyebrows are fucking blonde. Natalie was my best friend for twelve years, we shared the same birthday. What was I thinking? I always thought she had a serious case of FAS – her eyes were too far apart and she couldn't say “butterfly”. Fuckin' MFEO, I hope that when Robert actually grows a functioning dick and stops looking like a blonde Furby with Downs Syndrome, and they inevitably rub themselves off against each other under the full moon, that their kids look like when Gremlins get wet. 

 

Beside me, he starts to laugh, and he says, “you know, I thought Casper was really cute at the end, when he becomes human. And when he goes into the machine and he turns into the egg, I was always really upset, because he looks so, like, hopeful,” and he's not laughing anymore, now he just looks sad, “and he's like, “am I alive?” and it's like, no, you're not, and then her dad goes and dies, a fully grown man who's lived, you know, basically his entire life already, and Casper was only twelve years old, all he wanted to do was play out on his sleigh in the snow, and then they have to use that potion on her stupid fucking dad, who went and got himself killed, and I always thought that Casper was, you know, fucking robbed, basically. It's tragic.”

 

I should have known not to bring up Casper when he's orbiting; I'm thinking about a few months ago, Halloween sleep-over at my house, and we had all these American sweets; candy corn and peppermint M&M's; banana Twinkies that were seriously lush; flamin' hot Cheetos that Aaron refused to eat because they were too hot, seriously, fucking pussy, I swear he is like the whitest white person I know, and my mom had rented us all these scary movies – Scream, The Craft, Hostel because I love watching white boys get fucked up hashtag blessed, but Aaron insisted he wanted to watch Casper, for like the millionth time, and we smoked a ton of dabs on my bed, watching Casper on my laptop while my mom was passed out downstairs, and he was crying, and he turned to me and said, “he was twelve years old,” and I was so fucked up I was floating through outer space, and I said, “wow,” but I wasn't paying attention, I was transfixed on a fly sitting on the letter E on my keyboard, and I was thinking, wouldn't it be weird if flies were like, white instead of black.

 

“Hun, you're fucking tripping. Do you want a Tango?”


	4. Bois

When I open my eyes, I'm laying down on the floor of Jake Gorka's kitchen, using my black denim jacket as a blanket, and there's a diamond shaped imprint of the laminate floor on one side of my face. There's a sambuca smell hovering over everything, and I notice I'm surrounded by slices of mini pepperoni, fuck knows. My phone is laying next to me, and there's a crack on the screen, small enough to barely see, but large enough to give me anxiety and I'm thinking, you know, fuck, and when I press the screen, it's 11:47 and covered in dried alcohol and dabs.

 

My mouth tastes like shit, and when I try to swallow, my tongue gets stuck to the roof of my mouth, and I feel like I'm travelling back in time as I try to sit up, and then stand, dazed, and float towards the kitchen sink. I really need a drink; I need ice cold strawberry milkshake; I need to get beheaded, that's what I'm thinking about. Rub my forehead and grasp at a dirty glass next to the drainer and an empty bottle of Febreze, and try to remember, but it's hazy. I never black out, always wished I would though. Now I'm not sure. 

 

Last night, I was laying on my bed in my bedroom at home, browsing Aaron's instagram again like a weirdo, and he had all these stickers on a bunch of his selfies – cute little slices of toast with heart eyes and stuff, a cupcake riding a skateboard, I dunno, but I just thought he was so fucking cool, or whatever, there was just something so, you know, about it. I felt like I wanted to chew my own fingers off, I was feeling so ravenous for something I wasn't sure there was even a word for. I was absently playing with the hair around my belly button, and I was listening to Modern Baseball on spotify from my PS4 via my TV because I was feeling kind of, you know, and because he was wearing a t-shirt that said Whatever Forever on it three days ago, and I couldn't stop thinking about him, no matter how hard I tried, and I was feeling like a real fucking dickhead. And the thing that made me feel the worst was that I knew that the reason I felt so bad wasn't because I have a girlfriend, although I knew that should be it, it's not, though, I don't know what that says about me, but because I'm pretty sure Aaron doesn't even know who I am. I'm not cool, I don't put stickers of cute ice-lollies saying “wow” on my selfies; fuck, I don't even post that many selfies – most of my instagram pictures are pictures of cars and new video-games I got. I felt suddenly so ashamed, so immature, I wanted to delete my entire account and hang myself with my iPad charger. 

 

Every time I look at his profile, I feel like I'm descending into something, and notice something new and sometimes painful – the way his dimples go when he smiles, the way he sometimes tries to hide his face by sticking his two fingers up at the camera. Everything makes me kind of wanna die. I'm mesmerised, fervently inspecting every little detail, every fucking freckle. I feel like I'm losing my mind a little bit, and I was running my finger over my phone screen like I was running my hand over his leg in The Dream, feeling weird, but good about it, I dunno. I was absolutely terrified I was gonna accidentally like one of his photos. 

 

And the other day in the common room I was eating this raw seafood salad my mom got from Booths, and Brandon V was saying something about this meme he saw on Reddit, I dunno, and I was thinking, you know, fuck, I hope my trainers don't smell too bad, and suddenly the atmosphere in the room changed, and I had the very acute sense that he was watching me, or at least glancing in my direction probably, and I think I was blushing, but I didn't wanna look up, I was so worried that in fact, no, he wasn't looking at me at all, and my entire body felt like it was conducting a fucking trillion volts, or something, until I absolutely couldn't take it anymore, I was basically exhausted, and when I looked up at him, I felt like I was eating my own heart, he was looking at me, and I just sat there, mesmerised, staring at him, doing that half smile thing he did in the car park outside KFC, and the room felt like the way it does in movies when the camera goes weird and everything gets stretched out, you know, until he looked away, and I could feel my legs again.

 

I was laying on my bed, doing, you know, that stuff, and then I got a Whatsapp from Jake, and it said: ayy you still coming to mine tonight lad? with an alien emoji and a red balloon, and I was thinking, you know, oh shit, I already felt so committed to staying in last night and being sad and pining, acting like a creep and playing with my belly button, thinking about, you know, Aaron, and various ways to kill myself but not really. I was trying to think of an excuse I hadn't used in a while, and then he said: you better not air me Robert, I've got a bit of (pooh emoji) lad, and suddenly, I was feeling a little bit like, huh, because, you know, was Aaron gonna be there then, selling Jake the (pooh emoji) and so I said: obviously I wouldn't miss it mate, where you getting the (pooh emoji) from then? and I was feeling like my lungs were basically filling up with fluid, I was so nervous, and I sat up from my bed and stared at the pile of dirty clothes on the floor next to my TV, thinking like, oh shit, what am I gonna wear; why does it even matter; what the fuck am I gonna wear – staring at a Jack Wills t-shirt: no fucking way; denim Topman shirt: could work, isn't Huf, but still, and then Jake said: (devil emoji) obviously, who else. What you sayinnnnn?? and by now my heart was racing so fucking bad, and I was feeling so heavy, 

 

thinking about how his fingers briefly touched mine when he handed it over 

 

aching all over, and I said: go on then lad, and I felt like I just wanted to stab myself in the chest, I was so, you know, and Jake said: go awf son we dem boiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part one of an interconnected chapter :) playlist here - https://open.spotify.com/user/stealth_boy/playlist/0LgENqphpBRGsIVhJvotw8


	5. Us

Jake Gorka's mom's bedroom and I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a vodka and cheap energy drink in one of those red plastic cups they always have in American movies, and Cheyenne is sitting at Jake's mom's dressing table, putting on lip-gloss that says Ariana Grande on it, and saying, “I can't believe he invited that shithead, he knew I was gonna be here as well,” and she's talking about Robert, like she is always is lately, and you know, I'm getting pretty tired of it to be honest, like, I know what she's doing, she thinks I don't, but, you know, I do, and she's snorting coke off the back of a Cruel Intentions DVD. Class President by Dai Burger is playing from a bluetooth speaker in the shape of a penguin from Adventure Time connected to her phone next to her on the dresser, and there's a few other people in the room – Jake, Shane, Brandon V, Kim S and Kim L, and a few other people I haven't met before and don't know, including this really old guy with shit tattoos who's giving me really Bad Vibes.

 

They're all crowded around Jake's mom's dresser in the corner, cutting more lines of coke with Jake's mom's Waitrose reward card, and the room smells kind of like body odour, but the good kind, and Jake isn't wearing a shirt, and he has a pretty nice body, actually, and he's wearing a tie around his head, but all I can think about is Robert Sugden. I'm staring at the dark hair under Jake's arms and wondering what colour Robert's is. 

 

“I know for a fact Jake doesn't even like him that much, Corey told me,” Cheyenne is saying, snorting another line and checking her nose in the mirror, and Corey is a major fucking bitch, if I'm honest, which is kind of ironic because Cheyenne, The Queen, is my best friend, but I guess I just don't have that kind of bond with Corey. I'm pretty sure she hates me actually, oh well, I hate her too – she's so fake, and her eyes don't go in the same direction. “Did you know he fingered her in Iceland?” Cheyenne says, but I'm just nodding, cool, not paying attention, staring at Jake's body and the love-bite on the side of his neck – intensely purple and basically oozing, and I don't know why, but I'm feeling strangely melancholy, bitter, even, and I'm thinking about sucking Robert's neck until there's nothing left of either of us, just dust and hair. I'm trying to remember how I got here.

 

He's straight, I'm reminding myself, he has a girlfriend, Natalie Bannister, I don't know her, but she seems okay, cool even. I saw her wearing a Crash Bandicoot t-shirt once. Why does he always blush, I'm thinking, why are his legs so long.

 

“Aaron,” Jake says, looking up at me and smiling, and I'm thinking about Robert smiling, all teeth and blue eyes and fluffy blonde hair, whyyyyyy, “do you want a line?” and the old guy with the shit tattoos is staring at me too, giving me this really awful look that makes me want to peel my face off, so I swallow the spit in my mouth, pat my pocket, say, “no thanks, I'm good,” and then my phone goes off, and it's a text from, who else, Robert Sugden. Stare at his name in my contacts for a few seconds, Robert, and then the turtle emoji because I think it's, I dunno, cute. From the bluetooth penguin speaker, Same Ol' Mistakes by Rihanna, and I'm thinking, tell me about it, and the text says: you about? and I'm thinking I shouldn't have done all that ket earlier, my heart is going crazy, I'm shaking so badly, black dots descending, and I say: sure whats up (balloon emoji) feeling honestly on the verge of Armageddon and he says: Need some (pooh emoji) kid with the fist bump emoji 

 

“I know that you think it's fake, maybe fake's what I like...”

 

and suddenly, I'm feeling so dejected, missing something that was never mine in the first place, and Cheyenne shoves her phone in my face and says, “Reyes or Valencia?” 

 

-

 

He's sitting alone next to the pond at the end of Jake's garden, next to the shed, behind a few trellis' and a busted looking green-house, and a song I don't know is playing from his Motorola, which sits next to him sitting next to the pond, beside a ten pack of Embassy Number 1's and a Corona, and he's illuminated only by the flash from his phone because there aren't any lights up here. When I sit down beside him, legs crossed, same as him, staring into the abyss of the pond, he says, “hey,” and he's smoking a cigarette and absently playing with a twig. “You alright,” I say, playing with the hairs on my arms because I'm feeling weird, way too buzzed yet not buzzed enough, and I'm finding it hard to breathe.

 

He's wearing this really nice looking black denim jacket that basically fades away into the darkness, until there's nothing but a head and two forearms floating eerily in mid-air, attached to a cigarette, smoke rising and vanishing from his open mouth, and in the dark I swear I can see fangs, and I'm thinking about that, getting a little bit hard, blood rushing, and I'm wishing more than anything that I could just reach over, run my fingers over his lips, the veins on his forearms, and slowly learn to breathe again. The air smells like it smells after it's been raining on a really hot day, petrichor, I love that word, sounds mysterious, and he says, after a little while, “it's weird up here, isn't it. I feel like I'm on another planet.” Throws the twig into the pond, takes a drag on the cigarette, exhales, looks at me and says, “wouldn't that be nice.” I'm fingering the hard edge of the cigarette box, and I don't know what to say, so I say, “can I have one of these?” and he says, smoke billowing out of him, and in the dark he really does look like something I've never seen before, first contact, “if you want.” 

 

“Cheers,” I say, shake a cigarette from the pack, nudge him for a light, and when he turns and holds the lighter out for me, the lighter has a smiley face on it, and I'm feeling, you know, weird as fuck, focusing hard on his hands, touch me, fuck, punch me in the face, please, and he lights the cigarette, and says, 

 

wondering what colour his armpit hair is 

 

“it's alright,” and he's looking at me like I'm the first of my kind, too, a voyager from out there, the great beyond, something brand new and nameless, and the cosmic frontier between us feels somehow physical, I dunno, and I can't take it anymore, that's it, I feel like I'm going to

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> playlist here - https://open.spotify.com/user/stealth_boy/playlist/0LgENqphpBRGsIVhJvotw8


	6. Hell

They're sitting on the benches next to the astro turf field, and there's a few guys playing fake hockey next to us playing football, and Jake Gorka's not wearing a shirt and it's thirty three degrees and I'm feeling sweaty and self conscious. I feel like I died somewhere between media studies and lunch time, and now I'm a ghost, just floating around and feeling gross. Nothing makes sense, two nights ago at the pond. My ass feels wet. I'm still wearing my football shorts and the vest they make us wear when it's really sunny – the one that I hate because my arms look weird and chubby at the top – but Miss has already blown the whistle and practise is over. They're still sitting there, sharing a diet Red Bull with a black straw sticking out of it, and inexplicably I find myself floating towards them, thinking about two nights ago, the pond, feeling like a total fucking arsehole, wishing I was dead, and more than anything I want to turn away, flee, never talk to either of them again, especially Aaron, but for the past two nights I haven't been okay at all; I've hardly eaten, hardly slept, hardly done anything but sweat and think about his face, the way he looks when he's sad, feeling awful but horny and bad about it. 

 

As I hover closer, I can hear Blood Orange playing from a bluetooth speaker in the shape of a penguin from Adventure Time, and they're both staring at their phones; Aaron has a case on his with Stitch from Lilo and Stitch on it, attempting to eat the Apple logo, it's so fucking adorable I want to pull my own eyes out and eat them, you know, and Cheyenne's is just pink. They're both wearing sunglasses and suddenly I'm thinking, like, fuck, I wish I was wearing sunglasses too, but instead I'm squinting down at the both of them like I'm fucking disabled, sweating over everything, and when Cheyenne looks up at me as I approach them, wearing the same evil smirk she always does, it bothers me deeply, more than usual. I swear I saw Aaron looking up at Jake Gorka's stupid body earlier, but I'm probably imagining things, I tell myself, but I'm probably not, I reply. I'm WET all over, red as fuck and just fucking cremate me, thank u. Fuvking hell it's h0t as fuuuuuck and I can't think straight.

 

I'm trying to think of something sort of cool to say, something that doesn't make look like I have FAS, courtesy of Cheyenne, but I can't think of anything, all I can stammer is, “what's up?” absently scratching at my sweaty chubby arms and wishing he'd stand up and stab me in the oesophagus. 

 

“Not much,” Aaron says, not looking up at me. “Nothing,” Cheyenne says, raising one eyebrow beneath her sunglasses and taking a sip of the diet Red Bull through the black straw. There's a tattoo on her wrist that says 6669. Inside my head I'm saying okay, please look up at me, Aaron, just once, let me explain, let me literally lick the sweat off of the side of your neck and tell you over and over and over how

 

“Anyway, watermelon soda,” Cheyenne says, looking over at Aaron and then pulling a lipstick out of her bag and looking at the name on the bottom, “doesn't it make me look like I sucked a million dicks? I'm literally obsessed.”

 

“Millions,” Aaron says, but he sounds bored and sad, and I'm saying inside my head all I wanna do is lay on my bed with you and get high and watch stupid movies on Netflix all fucking day and I want to play with the hair around your bellybutton and run my hand over your head and say things like “wow” and “cool” and more than anything I just want to

 

for you

 

to

 

you know?

 

I still can't think of anything to say, so I say, “I like this one,” nodding towards the speaker, and Cheyenne kind of grimaces at me like “okay who the fuck asked you anyway?” you know, and she taps her phone, and the song changes. Chance The Rapper, fucking bitch. She turns back to Aaron and says, “I bet I could even suck your dick in this colour,” and she's laughing, and Aaron's laughing too, and he says, “girl you wish,” and then, with the worst smile on her face, she turns to me and says, “what about you, handsome,” inflection on the handsome, I'm breathless, “but then again, you'd probably only put your hand on my leg and start crying. But that's none of my business,” she says, sucking on the black straw. It's one hundr3d and seventy th0usand degree s and I'm in HELL.

 

“Cheyenne,” he says, but it's futile, everything's shit. He still won't look up at me. I don't have the words, I feel like she's forced a manicured hand into my chest and pulled out all my insides, stubbed out her cigarettes on my carcass. I'm exhausted and sad and I feel like I've forgotten how to walk. “Can I just-” I stammer, but there's nothing to say. 

 

“Sorry, I'm trying to catch this Vulpix,” he says, finally looking up at me, and I can't see his eyes beneath the sunglasses, but he sounds sad, and his forehead is sunburned a little bit. Cheyenne looks up at me and says, “are you a Rattata? Cuz no fuckin' thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet chapter to get back into the groove of things after not writing for a while. spotify playlist here - https://open.spotify.com/user/stealth_boy/playlist/0LgENqphpBRGsIVhJvotw8


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